Mainly I've been back to my books and writings and being nice and quiet and lazy. As I'm writing this, the radio says there's a foot of snow falling on Long Island. I really love snow and wish I could take a long walk in it right now.

We were all delighted, we all realized we were leaving confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one and noble function of the time, move.

It was my dream that screwed up, the stupid hearthside idea that it would be wonderful to follow one great red line across America instead of trying various roads and routes.

"What do you want out of life?" I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls.

I just won't sleep," I decided. There were so many other interesting things to do.

Dean's California--wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.

Burroughs is the greatest satirical writer since Jonathan Swift.